


You've Got Owl Post

by duplicity



Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Pen Pals, Pining, Romance, Secret Identity, so so so much pining, this is the soft romance we all deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Harry runs Little Godric's Bookshop in Hogsmeade and has a mysterious, anonymous penpal named Voldemort.One day, a man named Tom walks into his shop.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686931
Comments: 107
Kudos: 678
Collections: Corona Challenge





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
>
>> You've got mail AU
>> 
>> Can be modern/non magic au or canon au
> 
>   
> this was a joy to write, thank you to draugr for prompting it!
> 
> beautiful art of this fic, plus calligraphy, done by [Sakuragane_San](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakuragane_San) on tumblr [here ❤️](https://sakuraganesan.tumblr.com/post/616241163646713856/)!

Harry had nurtured the dream of running his parents’ bookstore ever since he’d been a small child.

After graduating Hogwarts, he had moved right into the flat above the shop, where he knew he would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his days.

Harry ran Little Godric’s Bookshop in Hogsmeade with his two employees—Remus Lupin, who was one of his parents’ oldest friends, and a girl named Astoria Greengrass, who was in her seventh year at Hogwarts. The shop did good business, and Harry was friendly with all the locals, most of whom had known his parents since they had been Hogwarts students.

Just last month, Harry had learned that a competitor shop was going to open up on the other side of the quaint, close-knit village.

Gaunt Books. A shiny bookstore that was part of a larger chain. Gaunt Books had locations that spanned across most of Europe, and they were well-known for their wide selection and affordable prices.

It annoyed Harry to no end. Those rich jerks with their inflated Gringotts accounts and stuffy, inbred bloodlines didn’t know the value of a good old-fashioned bookstore. Harry’s parents had created this place out of love; love for books, and love for each other.

So Harry wasn’t about to roll over to a—to a bookish version of _Draco Malfoy,_ of all things.

He just had to stick to the values his parents had raised him on. Being honest, being kind. Working to create an atmosphere that felt real, not manufactured.

His mother had held a dual degree: a Charms mastery and a Muggle degree in economics. So Harry was familiar with the severities of business, with the pitfalls of greed and capitalism, and he swore he would never succumb to the tempting glint of a quick Galleon.

It was real people who were on the other side of the counter, and so long as they had a desire to buy books, Harry would do his best to provide for them.

* * *

Some time ago, Fred and George had given Harry one of their latest inventions—an enchanted piece of parchment that you could use to communicate anonymously with others. The official name of the product was Powwow Parchment, and its purpose, according to the twins, was to mimic the online matchmaking forums of the Muggle world. 

The product had its basis with the Protean Charm, but it was layered with additional spells that could separate and direct conversations to specific people if you wished.

Harry’s parchment was a beta version whose release was limited to friends, investors, and select testing participants. It wasn’t the kind of item Harry had ever imagined purchasing for himself, but he owed it to the twins to give them a fair review of their product. So he’d dumped in a nickname—Prongslet—and given it a go, not expecting much.

The first few people he’d met were either awkward, boring, or downright offensive. Harry was fairly sure at one point he had come across Cormac McLaggen, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, Harry had kept at it, just to see if the parchment would continue to provide new people to talk to.

It had been a surprise when Harry met someone he actually liked talking to.

Harry and ‘Voldemort’ had been going back and forth with messages for some time now. The one condition Voldemort had stressed was that he wished for them to maintain their anonymity. And that was fine with Harry, because he didn’t care to talk about his personal life with a stranger.

Harry had a good life, a simple one; he didn’t want or need pity from the mysterious man on the other end of the parchment connection.

Because Harry did get pity from other people a lot. They didn’t get that he didn’t need to be coddled or looked after just because his parents had died. Some of them even thought he was wasting his time and talents running a bookshop, and Harry had grown tired of explaining over and over how much keeping his parents’ dream alive meant to him.

Voldemort wasn’t like that. He never pried, and he was always so genuine and witty and empathetic. Harry found himself growing quickly attached, wondering where on earth such an incredible person existed, hoping that Voldemort found Harry’s companionship to be equally rewarding.

But Voldemort must have, because their conversations often stretched late into the evenings; Harry ended up running on coffee to keep himself awake and upright in the mornings following their lengthy talks.

The only personal question Harry had ever asked Voldemort was about the origin of his nickname—to which Harry had received a facetious but firm rebuff.

So Harry had let the matter drop immediately. He liked Voldemort a lot, and it wasn’t worth troubling their friendship over such trivial matters.

* * *

The bell of Little Godric’s Bookshop rang with a soft tinkle. Harry had been in the middle of reshelving some books, but he set them aside to greet the new customer.

A tall man wearing a bespoke charcoal grey coat had drifted into the store. If not for the fact that his coat was Muggle, Harry would have pinned him as a Pureblood. The man walked with aristocratic airs, and he had the look of an aristocrat, too: high cheekbones, straight nose, sharp brows. Handsome features that even the plainest of outfits could never disguise.

Harry walked over to him. “Hey there, I’m Harry. Do you mind if I ask what brought you in today?”

The man turned his attention away from the bookshelf he’d been eyeing. “Nothing in particular. Just spotted your quaint little shop while walking by. I thought I’d come in and take a look.”

“Well, we’re sure to have something that tickles your fancy,” Harry said with a smile. “So you’ve come to the right place. Let me see… fiction? Nonfiction? You strike me as a bit of a nonfiction bloke, but maybe you’re about to prove me wrong?”

That prompted a half-smile. “I’ve been known to dabble in both.”

“Any particular genres?”

“I’m not bothered about that,” the man said with a dismissive gesture. “I’ll read any genre if the mood strikes me.”

Harry’s grin grew wider. “A man after my own heart, then. Why don’t you let me show you a few of my favourite titles?”

The man raised a brow. “Then by all means, lead the way. Impress me, Harry.”

“I will,” Harry decided. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

The customer—Tom, he said his name was—unfortunately didn’t end up buying anything Harry suggested, choosing instead to purchase, for some unfathomable reason, Gilderoy Lockhart’s newest novel.

But the friendly rapport they had struck up left Harry with the impression that Tom would be returning soon enough, if only to complain about the book he’d bought being geared towards middle-aged witches.

* * *

_Magical Moral Perspective. Thoughts?_

Harry was sat in his favourite chair by the fire, parchment laid out on the floating writing board he normally used for penning owl letters or scribbling his own silly book ideas. Upon seeing the latest message from Voldemort, he eagerly summoned his quill and inkwell to respond.

_One of the best books I’ve ever read,_ Harry wrote. _The juxtaposition of magical and Muggle perspectives was absolutely fascinating. I spent a solid week thinking about it after I finished it, and I kept getting all these ideas for stories based off of it—it just wouldn’t leave my head. I’d say it’s definitely a top ten of mine. I recommend it to everyone._

_I’ve just read the first chapter,_ was the reply.

Harry wet his lips. _So what do you think so far?_

There was no response for a few seconds, and eventually Harry’s words faded away.

Harry wasn’t too worried. Voldemort never left in the middle of conversation. Even when he was called away, he always made sure to write down saying he had to go.

Voldemort was, however, very picky. Though maybe that was putting it lightly. Harry had no doubt that Voldemort would refer to his pickiness as having ‘refined tastes’. But surely a book such as this would impress even Voldemort, who had grudgingly conceded Harry’s affection for fairytales as ‘not completely useless’ after Harry spent hours spouting literary analysis at him.

_It is... interesting,_ Voldemort wrote back. _I find I disagree with many of the author’s points so far. Makes one wonder if the rest is worth reading._

_All books have value,_ Harry scrawled across the page. _Even if you disagree._

There was another pause, and then—

_If you insist._

Oh, come on! That wouldn’t do. Harry was going to have to wrangle a proper response out of him. No one read a book like this, even if it was only the first chapter, and came back with ‘it’s interesting’. Voldemort just needed to get off his high and mighty horse and admit that it was a really great book.

Harry put his quill to parchment and began to write. He’d make Voldemort change his mind even if it took all night.

* * *

The next time Tom came by the shop, he had a little girl with him. Puffy coat and frilly skirts; black hair done up into curly pigtails. She took to Remus almost immediately, demanding that the older man pick her up and read to her from all of the storybooks.

Tom seemed to find this predicament amusing, and so he and Harry were content to watch as the girl spoke animatedly to Remus about her favourite stuffed animals and their adventures.

“She yours?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. Tom didn’t wear a wedding band, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t attached.

“A friend’s child,” Tom said. “Entrusted to my care for the day. Her name is Delphini.”

“So you decided to pawn her off here, then,” Harry said jokingly. “I don’t think Remus minds, funnily enough.”

“He’s a kind man,” Tom acknowledged.

Remus now had Delphini perched on his shoulders so she could grab at the books on the top shelf. They were aiming for the ones with the ‘pretty colours’, according to her. The pair of them went from wall to wall as Delphini plucked books from the shelves and dumped them into the floating basket that accompanied her.

“Did you like the book you bought last time you were here?” Harry asked.

Tom shrugged a careless shoulder. “Contrived, but the main purpose carried well enough. The quality of the writing, however, leaves something to be desired.”

Harry snorted. “You sound like a friend of mine. He’s always going on about the books he reads and doesn’t like.”

“There’s nothing condemnable about being a critic.”

“There is when it’s all you do,” Harry pointed out. “Some people like to read for enjoyment, you know. Not for picking everything in it to death.”

“If I’m buying a book,” Tom said crossly, “I’m paying for quality, not for frivolous ideas of good writing.”

“None of that,” Harry scolded in a light tone. “Not in this bookshop. All books have value. Maybe take it across the village to that new bookshop once it opens if you want to start that kind of conversation up.”

Harry had expected Tom to crack a smile at the joke, but a beat of silence fell between them instead. Tom glanced out the window, then back at Delphini, who was now sitting in the large wooden rocking chair while she read aloud to Remus from ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’.

“The bookshop across the village,” Tom said slowly. “What do you know about it?”

The pointed question sent a spike of anxiety through Harry. His friends had been asking him about this, about what he was going to do. As part of a larger bookchain, Gaunt Books would offer much lower prices than Harry could.

“Honestly?” Harry said. “I’m worried. And I know everyone else is worried about me, too. Everyone knows what a larger bookchain like that means. People might say they care about the friendliness of a local shop but, at the end of the day, a lot of them will go for the lower price.”

Tom paused again, as though to consider his words before speaking. “That’s very candid of you, Harry. I do admire your shop. At first I thought it too pedestrian for my tastes, but it has grown on me in ways I hadn’t expected. Have you thought of what you’ll do if things don’t work out?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to glance out the window. “I’m not sure, to be honest? I waited my whole life to run this store. It’s the only thing I really have, besides reading books.”

“You must have other hobbies. You enjoy reading; what about writing?”

“I mean…” Harry bit his lip. “I did once think about writing stories. Children’s books, maybe. But it’s just something I do for fun.”

“I’m sure your ideas are wonderful, Harry.” Tom smiled, his head tipping to the side, and Harry noted just how _warm_ his eyes were. “I couldn’t imagine you writing anything less than perfection.”

Harry wasn’t sure what about this response tugged the floodgate inside of him open, but suddenly all of his thoughts and feelings were pouring out to this man who was little more than a stranger to him.

“This bookshop—it was my mum and dad’s dream come true,” Harry said softly. “When they passed, they left it to me. It was so important to them, and there’s so much love that went into this place. I just—I’m not sure if I can bear to lose it, you know?”

Tom shifted, his head turning away again. “That is… very unfortunate. A legacy is a difficult thing to live up to.”

Delphini shrieked just then, barrelling over. “Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom! Pick me up now!”

Tom swept her off her feet as she giggled. “I think we ought to be taking our leave,” Tom said suddenly. “You, dear girl, are expected home by your mother and father.”

“Noo,” Delphini said, now attempting to wiggle out of Tom’s grasp. “Don’t wanna.”

Tom withdrew a pouch from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it to a befuddled Remus. “This ought to cover everything she’s picked out.”

Remus didn’t open the pouch; he seemed surprised by the weight of it. “Did you want to take them with you? I can wrap them—”

“Just have it wrapped for ‘Delphini Lestrange’,” Tom said, tone brisk, “and I will send someone by to pick it up tomorrow.”

And so Harry could only watch as the two left the shop in a hurry, feeling strangely bereft. Although he didn’t know Tom that well just yet, he thought they got on alright. Hopefully, they would see each other again soon.

* * *

_I concede your point. Some of these ideas… do have their merits. But I will say that anyone would be foolish to subscribe to the ideal of a permanent afterlife._

Harry sighed aloud at this. _And why not? Isn’t it nice to give people something to hope for?_

_Knowing there exists an afterlife doesn’t make the end any more enjoyable, does it? The people you leave behind won’t thank you for burdening them._

The last sentence struck hard for some reason. Harry straightened, blinking as he leant back from the parchment.

Voldemort’s words faded from the page, and then more ink appeared.

_My apologies. That came across harsher than I intended. I have personal reasons for my beliefs, and I will not press you further on yours. I will say, however, that many let their fear restrain them from achieving their dreams. You are an intelligent man with great talent and strong character. I would hate to see you reach anything less than your full potential._

The kindness made the corners of his eyes prickle. Harry picked his quill back up and penned a shaky reply.

_It’s fine. I understand what you meant. Thank you. It just hit me harder than I expected. I think I’m going to head to bed early tonight. Sorry._

The reply was instant.

_No apology necessary. Please take care of yourself. Same time tomorrow?_

_Yes,_ Harry wrote. _Good night._

He didn’t wait for a response; he left the parchment on the desk and blew out his candles before tucking himself into his bed for the night. There were other, more important problems for him to deal with than his confused feelings for Voldemort.

One more week until Gaunt Books opened, and Harry still had no idea what he was going to do.

* * *

“Come on, Harry.” Astoria tugged at his sleeve. “This can be fun if you let it be.”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t much for fancy events, but there would be many important people here for the Publishers Gala tonight, publishers and authors alike, and he needed to make a good impression. The word ‘nervous’ didn’t cover it. Maybe if there were a hundred synonyms to describe his current level of anxiety, then that would be a good start.

“I’ll get through it,” Harry said amicably. “That’s what matters. I don’t need to enjoy myself.”

Astoria sighed. “You need to get out more. Find someone cute to shag.”

Harry choked on air. “You’re too young to be telling me that!”

“I’m not that young,” she said crossly. “I’m of age.”

Harry shook his head as they drew closer to the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry of Magic. How the Ministry ballroom had been secured as a venue for this event, Harry had no idea. Someone must have pulled a lot of strings.

As they walked through the Atrium, they ran into Hermione Granger, who chattered about her latest research and how she planned to draft a new textbook for third-year Transfiguration classes by the autumn’s end.

“And I heard the owner of Gaunt Books will be here tonight,” Hermione finished primly, having hardly paused for breath the entire time. “He’s sponsored the event.”

“Oh?” Astoria asked shrewdly. “We don’t know much about him, do we? Not since the first owner passed a few years back. Then the whole company rebranded and those bloody shops started popping up everywhere—”

“ _Language_ ,” Harry scolded her. “Not here, Astoria.”

Astoria stuck her tongue out at him, then continued, “Anyways, I hope he falls down some stairs. Would serve him right.”

* * *

Harry was glad he had brought Astoria with him. She had asked to come along because she had aspirations of becoming an editor someday, but she already seemed to know a great many people as they milled about the large ballroom. Harry sang her praises to everyone they talked to, hoping it would help. He wanted her to have options after graduation—especially if he had to cut back hours.

But things were going reasonably well, at least from Harry’s limited perspective. They had wined and dined, and now they were mingling. Harry had just been thinking of turning in early, and that was when he’d spotted Tom.

High-collared black robes, stiff white shirt underneath. Curled hair and pale skin. Those long legs encased in tailored trousers. What was Tom doing here?

Curiosity peaked, Harry walked over to him.

“Tom?” he asked.

Tom glanced over, his dark eyes roaming Harry’s form. “Harry,” he said, sounding surprised. “What a pleasure to see you here. I didn’t know you were attending.”

“I’m the one with the bookstore,” Harry said, laughing a little. “Why are you here?”

Maybe Tom was a book critic? That would make sense, seeing as he had so many opinions. Harry had often wondered if Voldemort was a critic, or if the man simply had a great appreciation for all the various forms of literature.

Tom averted his gaze a moment, two faint splotches of colour appearing on his cheeks. “I—”

“Ah, Tom Riddle!”

Both of them turned to see Horace Slughorn waddling over. Given the circumference of the man’s waistband, Harry was rather impressed at the speed with which the aging publisher could move at.

“And Harry Potter!” Slughorn boomed, his voice continuing to rise despite the fact that he was now much closer. “Such fine young gentlemen to be in the company of. How are you, Tom? I haven’t seen you in such a long time. I know you’ve been very busy lately—”

“I’m well, Horace,” Tom interjected smoothly, “thank you for asking after me. Why, I was just telling Cornelius how your advice has been invaluable over the years.”

“You speak too highly of me, Tom,” Slughorn said, waving it off. “It’s an old man’s job to mentor the young and sprightly.” He beamed at the two of them, then asked, “And how do the two of you know each other?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, only Tom spoke first, beating him to it.

“I dropped by Harry’s bookstore on a whim. We struck up a conversation about Lockhart’s latest.”

“Gilderoy is a scholar and a marvel,” Slughorn said, enthusiastic as he clapped his hands together in delight. “Everything he writes turns to pure Galleons!”

Tom’s charming smile strained around the edges. Harry knew Tom thought very little of Lockhart’s ability to write, only now he couldn’t say so without offending Slughorn. It was amusing to watch the way Tom’s face contorted as he struggled to hold back his distaste.

“But you would know well enough about that, wouldn’t you Tom? A surprise inheritance, if you can believe it,” Slughorn said, now talking to Harry. “An entire empire at your fingertips! Could you imagine?”

“No,” Harry said honestly, “I couldn’t.” He looked over at Tom, whose mouth had pressed shut, his face more dour than usual.

“I don’t think Harry needs to hear all the sordid details,” Tom said stiffly. “Especially about family.”

Harry bristled. He wasn’t some fragile flower! He could talk about other people’s families without dissolving into a pool of tears; Tom ought to know better than to try and butt in like that.

“I always knew Tom was destined for greatness,” Slughorn continued, heedless of the way Tom was now glaring at him, “and what better proof than to discover his true heritage? The Gaunt line was thought to have ended with Morfin when he passed, may he rest in peace, but then to receive the shocking news of our young Tom Riddle as the new heir! The stuff of stories, if you ask me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “Did you just say Gaunt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two will be tom's POV :)
> 
> thank you for reading, please leave your thoughts below!


	2. Tom

“I’m sorry,” Harry said politely. “Did you just say Gaunt?”

Slughorn was oblivious to the change in atmosphere as he continued to prattle on, “Absolutely! Didn’t you know? Why, Tom is opening up a new location in Hogsmeade very soon—”

Tom watched in horror as Harry’s face morphed from shock, to anger, to disgust.

“Sorry,” Harry said in a monotone. “I’ve just realized I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you again soon, Horace—” And Harry walked away, making long strides for the entrance.

Tom followed, chasing after, not caring who saw him or what Slughorn thought about his abrupt departure. His shoes smacked against the waxed floors as he ran out into the hallway. The lights were low here, and it was harder to make out Harry’s expression at this distance.

“Harry,” Tom called, “Harry, wait, I can explain.”

“Explain what?” Harry came to a halt, whirling around, and Tom was shocked to see the intense, vibrant _hatred_ in those emerald eyes. “That you were lying to me this entire time about who you were? That you pretended to care about me, about what I told you about my parents? When all you really think is I’m some poor orphan to be pitied and put out of my misery—”

“I don’t think that,” Tom said, swallowing. “I never did. I promise, Harry, that I didn’t mean for things to go so far.”

“You’re just like the rest of them,” Harry said haltingly. “All you care about is your wallet. What were you doing? Scoping out the competition?”

“It’s not like that,” Tom said, frustrated. “You don’t understand.”

“What’s there to know?” Harry’s face was red, his hands clenched into fists. “You’re a spoiled asshole who thinks money can solve everything. You don’t care about me.”

Harry didn’t know anything. Harry didn’t know what it was like to have nothing, to grow up with nothing, to have no parents at all. During his entire childhood, Tom had worked hard for everything he owned; it wasn’t his fault he’d been handed a sudden inheritance. It might have been delivered to him, but he _deserved_ it—this was what the universe owed him.

Because Tom had _always_ been the pitied orphan at school, at work, wherever he went. The poor boy with the Muggle surname. Brilliant, handsome Tom Riddle who lived at a dirty Muggle orphanage during the summer. Harry had it easy, by comparison. He had _no right_ to judge Tom’s life so harshly.

“You don’t know bullshit,” Tom snapped. “All you’ve ever done is live out someone else’s dreams simply because you were too afraid to have your own. You say you don’t want to be treated like some sad little orphan? _Then stop acting like one._ ”

“Fuck you,” Harry spat back. He looked murderous, like he was going to start throwing punches any second. “Fuck you to hell, Tom. Leave me alone.”

The anger was expected, but hearing such harshness from Harry still cut deeply. Insides twisting, Tom watched Harry storm off. He felt helpless, like he was once again eleven years old and being thrust into a new world with no one he could trust.

Harry had trusted him, and Tom had broken that trust.

Tom regretted lashing out in anger, but he didn’t think what he’d said was wrong. Harry deserved to have his own dreams, his own ambitions. His grief was holding him back, and Tom could only hope that, with time, Harry would come to see this on his own.

* * *

_Are you awake?_

Tom snatched the parchment up and hurried to reply. He’d come home after the gala and stayed awake all night, hoping that Harry would write to Voldemort, and it seemed that his tenacity had paid off.

_Yes, I am,_ he wrote, resisting the urge to add on more in case it gave him away.

Harry wanted nothing to do with Tom Riddle anymore, but he _did_ want to talk to Voldemort. So Tom had to be very careful with what he said now, or else he’d lose what little connection with Harry he had left. Tom might never get a chance with Harry ever again, but maybe Voldemort could have one. Voldemort could hold onto the special connection with Harry that Tom had never felt with anyone else before.

Tom waited, staring at the page, but Harry didn’t respond. The minutes ticked by, and Tom began to feel anxious.

_Prongslet?_

There was another second of nothing, and then, finally, black ink appeared on the page.

_Yeah. Sorry. It’s just been a long night._

_I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?_

Tom wished he could ask if Harry wanted to talk about it, but they had maintained their anonymity for so long that it would be odd for him to pry now.

_Not really. Just talking is nice. It keeps my mind off it. Have you read anything new recently?_

Tom hadn’t, but there were books they had yet to discuss, and so he could use those as conversation fodder to help remedy the situation he had inadvertently caused by stepping into Harry’s bookstore without knowing who Harry was. Without knowing that Harry was Prongslet.

_As a matter of fact, I have…_

* * *

A week went by. The new location of Gaunt Books opened as planned, and Tom caught himself repeatedly thinking of Harry and Little Godric’s Bookshop.

As the sales numbers of the new Gaunt Books location rose, Tom felt terrible, only there was nothing he could do with these feelings because Harry refused to talk to him.

Tom had owled Harry letters full of lengthy explanations and apologies, but he had not received any responses. It was fair, though. He should have come clean to Harry much sooner. The bookshop meant the world to Harry, who he had every right to feel betrayed by Tom’s actions. Tom just hadn’t wanted to confess to being the man who was going to run the shop out of business. He had let his fear of losing Harry control his decisions.

While Harry continued to ignore owl post from Tom Riddle, he did, however, continue to talk to Voldemort.

They were talking more than they ever had before, and Tom grew more distressed with every passing conversation. Tom wanted to see Harry in person and apologize to him. But if Harry found out that Tom was Voldemort, then that would be the end of it.

So Tom was at a loss for what to do. He hated that he was still lying to Harry about who he was, but he was also afraid of losing Harry a second time. Because he… because he cared about Harry. He cared a great deal, if he was admitting it to himself. And if things at the Publishers Gala had gone differently, if they weren’t dreaded business rivals, then he would have asked Harry out on a date.

But all of that was meaningless now. Tom would remain Harry’s anonymous friend, a distant confidante, and he would have to be content with that.

To distract himself, Tom buried his head in his work, only it was impossible to push Harry out of his mind completely when they conversed on a nightly basis.

Tom had never been this close with anyone before; it was a new feeling. He trusted Harry with everything. Harry was sweet and empathetic, kinder than Tom deserved, and that was how Tom found himself writing more and more about his past. His wretched childhood at the orphanage. His struggle to fit in at Hogwarts as a poor Muggleborn in a house full of posh, ambitious children.

Though he was careful to redact the names and dates involved, Tom slowly unravelled for Harry all that had made him who he was, disclosing everything before the point where he had learned of his mother’s surname and the powerful lineage that ran in his veins.

It felt… nice. To get all of that off his chest. To share his thoughts and feelings with someone who understood. With someone who he knew would not mock him for his fears.

Tom had never thought that investing in the Weasley twins’ joke shop would result in anything other than a solid return, but it _had._

That ridiculously-named parchment had changed his entire life so irrevocably that Tom could not imagine where his life would be at this moment if Harry had not stumbled into it.

* * *

Two months later, Tom received news that Little Godric’s had closed for business, permanently. Tom was not sure how to feel about this. Harry’s correspondence with Voldemort was the same as ever—cheerful, even—and Voldemort was in no place to inquire about Prongslet’s personal life.

Then, one afternoon, Remus Lupin came into the store with his resume.

Tom didn’t need to think about it. “You’re hired. I’ll put you in the children’s department, if that’s not an issue.”

Remus stared for a few moments. “I—you don’t mind my availability?”

“Not an issue.” Tom waved it off. “Delphini is always asking after you. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job here with us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Riddle. I don’t know what to say. Or how I can repay you.”

_Tell Harry I’m sorry,_ Tom thought. But he didn’t dare voice the wish aloud. 

“You’ll start next week. I’ll ask Marietta to show you around.” Tom retrieved a folder and passed it over. “Until then, you can look these over and sign them at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” Remus repeated. “I’m eager to start here.”

Tom honestly did want to hire Remus. The man would be a good fit for the location, and he was wonderful with children. There had been no discrimination in the company’s hiring practices since Tom had taken over. Remus would work just as hard as any other employee, Tom was sure.

And if Harry ever came by the store to see his friend, then that would only be an added bonus.

* * *

“Harry?” Tom blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him.

It wasn’t. Harry Potter was standing in the middle of his bookstore. Harry was wearing a lumpy maroon sweater and Muggle denim jeans. He looked well. Tom was ridiculously glad to see him.

“Hey, Tom.” Harry stuck his hands into his pockets and shuffled forwards. “I’m here to say I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t think you’re a rich jerk. Actually, I think you’re a pretty decent person, and so I wanted… I wanted to know if you would like to try being friends again.”

“I—I would like that.” Tom stepped closer, then added, “And it’s not your fault. I’m sorry, Harry, for lying to you about who I was. And for what I said to you that night. I should not have overstepped—”

“No, it’s not all on you,” Harry said. He shook his head. “You… you were right. I was mad at you for lying. I lashed out. But you were right about my needing to figure out what my own dreams are.”

A weight had been lifted from Tom’s shoulders. He felt more at ease than he had in ages. “So, are we friends?” Tom asked, holding a hand out.

“Yeah.” Harry smiled, green eyes glinting behind his glasses. He took Tom’s hand in his own and shook it firmly. “Friends.”

“Perfect,” Tom said. He paused, then offered, “Would you like me to show you around?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” Harry said, and he didn’t sound like he was only being polite. He seemed genuinely interested in looking around.

“Why don’t we start with the children’s department,” Tom said. “I assume Remus has told you a bit about it, but I was wondering if you had any opinions on a few potential additions…”

* * *

_I’ve been working on a new project lately._

Tom tapped the end of his quill against his chin as he considered the words. This was the closest that Prongslet had ever gotten to talking about his personal life. How should Voldemort respond to this?

_If you want my interest, you’ll have to extend more information than that._

_Cheeky git,_ Prongslet wrote back. _Maybe I’ll leave you to stew in your curiosity to teach you a lesson._

Tom frowned. _You wouldn’t dare._

_Oh, I do dare. Someone ought to knock you down a peg or two, Voldemort. I think I may sit on this for a while, just to see if you can figure it out._

Tom felt he already had an idea of what it was, only there was no reason for Voldemort to come up with such a guess.

_Seems unfair. Do I get any hints?_

_How about this? You figure it out, and I’ll let you take me to dinner._

Sweet Salazar. Tom set his quill down on his desk and took a moment to run his hands through his hair, distressed. Harry was interested in him. But not him—Voldemort.

Then Harry wrote another line, which appeared underneath the first. _We don’t have to meet in person if you don’t want to._

Tom had debated retiring his alternate persona entirely, only he was worried what would happen if ‘Voldemort’ suddenly went missing. Harry might try to track Voldemort down.

But now… what could Tom do now? Harry wanted to meet him. And if they did meet, Tom would be caught lying yet again, and then Harry would leave him for good.

_I do want to meet you,_ Tom wrote. _And I want to take you to dinner someday. I just need some time first._

_I understand. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes. You’re an important person to me, and I want to do this right._

Tom eyed the words, his heart thudding out an irregular beat in his chest. Voldemort was important to Harry. More so than Tom was, because Voldemort had never hurt him.

But Tom… Tom had learned his lesson about lying to Harry. He would tell Harry the truth; he just needed to think of the best way to do it. And if Harry meant what he said, then maybe he could find it in him to forgive Tom for this as well.

* * *

Harry set a heavy stack of paper down upon the table with a thump. The papers were covered in Harry’s handwriting, neat rows of words running across the pages. All of the pages were bound together by a thick black ribbon. Tom gazed down at the pile, bemused.

“I took your advice,” Harry said. “This is my final copy of a children’s novel I’ve been writing. Astoria was my editor, and I’ve reached out to Slughorn for publishing. We’re drawing up the contracts next week.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tom said, standing up. “It’s no small feat to finish an entire novel. You should be very proud of yourself, Harry. I knew you had it in you.”

Harry fiddled with the corner of his manuscript. “This copy is for you to read. It’s the final version that I finished by hand. Slughorn said he’s going to arrange for an artist to provide some illustrations, but I wanted you to be the first… the first real _reader_ to read the whole thing.”

“Of course I’ll read it,” Tom told him. He’d do that first thing tonight.

“And... and if you like it,” Harry added, sounding nervous, “I’d love for Gaunt Books to carry it. Exclusively.”

“Absolutely,” Tom said, clapping his hands together. “Should I owl Slughorn now?”

Harry flushed. “You ought to read it first, Tom.”

“I’ll love it,” Tom said promptly. “It’s perfect.”

“Read it,” Harry insisted, pushing the manuscript across the desk. “And then make your decision. I want to know what you think. Your honest opinion, Tom. Not just because we’re friends.”

Tom pulled the papers towards himself. “Very well. I’ll read it tonight and give you my honest opinion.”

“Good. I’d expect nothing less.” Harry smiled, and the sight of it triggered a blossom of warmth in Tom’s chest.

* * *

Tom burned through the entire manuscript in just under an hour. It was a children’s novel, written obviously for its younger audience, but the world and the characters Harry had created and woven together were so compelling that once Tom had started to read it, he simply couldn’t put it down.

A tale of friendship, adventure, and love. Characters that Tom found himself consumed by. He empathized with their struggles and related to their perspectives, almost like the book had been written for him specifically. There was a profound simplicity to the way Harry conveyed even the most basic of human emotions.

As soon as Tom had finished, he’d activated his Floo and placed a call to Harry’s flat.

Harry connected almost right away, and then his head appeared in Tom’s fireplace, his eyes bright and giddy.

“What do you think?”

“It’s incredible,” Tom breathed. “You’ve got yourself a bestseller, Harry.”

“Really? I mean, I thought it was good, and Astoria did, but I know people don’t take children’s books as serious literature—”

Tom had to interrupt at this point. “Harry, I am quite possibly the most particular reader you will ever have the misfortune to meet, and I’m telling you that this is the best novel I’ve read in a very long time.”

Harry blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly. “I—wow. That means a lot, Tom. Coming from you. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re making the right choice with this career, Harry. And I’d be honoured to carry any and all stories you decide to write.”

“I’d love that,” Harry said. He was even bouncing up and down now, bless him. “Merlin, I’m so excited. I can’t wait for us to do this together.”

They spoke late into the night—until Harry was nodding off, yawning every other word. Tom sent him off to bed and ended the call. Then Tom got up, wincing as his knees cracked. He didn’t typically make such long calls, preferring instead to meet in person, but Harry was the exception. Harry was, and would always be, the exception to the many protective walls Tom had built around himself.

It was only once Tom was tucked into his own bed that he spotted the Powwow Parchment resting on his night stand. He hadn’t touched it all night, and neither had Harry. It was the first night in ages that Prongslet and Voldemort had skipped their nightly conversation.

Regret tore at Tom. He couldn’t, in good conscience, allow Harry to sign anything before he knew the full truth. It wouldn’t be fair for Harry to be trapped in a contract with Tom without knowing who he was agreeing to work with.

So Tom summoned a quill, then spread the parchment out upon the night stand, debating what he wanted to say.

In the end, he settled for something simple.

_The Hog’s Head. Tomorrow, 10 am sharp. Hope to see you there._

Tom stared at the words for a long while. They did not fade away, which meant Harry hadn’t seen them yet.

It would do no good to meet Harry with a poor night’s rest, Tom decided eventually. He shut his lights, pulled the covers over himself, and tried to sleep.

When Tom woke in the morning, there were three new words written on his parchment that sealed his fate.

_See you there._

* * *

Tom had risen early due to his nerves. So he washed and dressed, then paced his flat, restless and worried. Usually he had tea or coffee, but caffeine would do nothing to help ease his anxiety. Today would either be the start of everything, or it would be the end. Everything would be laid out for Harry to see.

When Tom arrived at the Hog’s Head, he was thirty minutes ahead of schedule.

Somehow, Harry was already there. Dark grey sweater layered over a cream coloured shirt and tan pants. There was a maroon-gold Gryffindor scarf draped loosely around his neck.

“Tom!”

Tom winced inwardly at hearing his name and walked over. “Harry,” he greeted. “You’re here early. At the bar, I mean.”

“I’m meeting someone,” Harry said. He sounded cheerful. For now, anyways.

“Who might that be?” Tom asked, affecting surprise. “Anyone I know?”

Harry shuffled his feet. “Sort of… an anonymous pen pal? We’ve been talking back and forth for a few months. Today he asked to meet me in person.”

Tom couldn’t help pushing further. “A stranger?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “He’s… he’s different. I’m—I sort of—he’s been really good to me, Tom. We talk almost every day.” Harry smiled, fond, then continued, “He’s smart and charming and well-read. And understanding. Most of the time. Sometimes I find myself having to beat basic concepts of human decency into his head.”

“Sounds like the perfect man.”

Harry coughed a laugh. “I suppose he is.”

“And you like him?” Tom asked.

“I—” Harry trailed off. “I do. I like him a lot.”

“But you’ve never met him,” Tom said. “He could be fifty years your senior, for all you know.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, doubtful.

“He could be bald. Or missing his nose.”

Harry slapped a hand to his chest in mock horror, his head tipping back in an exaggerated motion. “I’m offended you think that matters to me!”

Tom laughed despite himself, then sobered. “So you’ve fallen for a man you’ve only spoken to through the use of the written word.”

“You underestimate the seductive charms of my writing.”

“Oh, I think I know it _very_ well by now,” Tom said.

They made eye contact again. Harry blushed, dropping his chin down.

Tom hesitated before he spoke this time. “Harry, there’s something I wanted to say to you. Last night. I didn’t get a chance to then, so I suppose this is as good of a time as any.”

“Sure, Tom. What’d you want to say?”

Tom inhaled and slid his hands into his pockets. “If we had met in other circumstances, if I hadn’t been responsible for putting your parents’ shop out of business…” Tom met Harry’s gaze, voice firming as he continued, “If we had met on a typical day, as perfect strangers to each other—Harry, I would have asked you to be mine from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

“Oh,” said Harry. His hand lifted to cover his mouth, and then it dropped back down.

“And I know,” Tom continued, “that I had my first chance, and I ruined it. But if you can find it in yourself to offer a chance to a man you’ve never even seen, then I hope you could offer me one last try.”

“Tom, I…” Harry glanced over his shoulder, where the sign of the Hog’s Head hung from its post. “I really wish I could.”

Tom swallowed down the bitterness in his throat. He knew what he wanted to say. And Harry could do whatever he wanted with these words, say whatever he wanted, because no matter what happened, Tom would always mean them.

“I understand,” Tom said. “I only want you to know that I am… that I will be here for you, without exception, without fail. You’re an important person to me, and I want to do right by you. You give me something to hope for, Harry. More hope than I ever dreamed of having.

“So, if you’ll have me,” Tom continued, his voice wavering the slightest bit, “I’d like to take you to dinner someday. Or lunch, as this case may be.”

Harry froze, his body still partly angled towards the bar entrance. “That—you—” He exhaled and turned to face Tom fully. “He _is_ you, then? You’re—you’re Voldemort?”

Tom tried to smile, but he was unsure if he was succeeding. “I shouldn’t be surprised by how brilliant you are anymore, yet I still find myself amazed. You knew it was me?”

“I didn’t—” Harry shook his head as though to clear it. “Not for sure. I suspected, or maybe I wondered.” Harry stepped closer still, so that they were barely an arm’s length away from each other. “Tom, I was hoping it would be you. I _wanted_ it to be you—”

And then Harry was right in front of him, clutching at his elbows, and Tom couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move out of the sudden paralysis that had seized his entire body.

“You wanted it to be me?” Tom asked, his voice distant to his own ears.

“I wanted it to be you so badly,” Harry said, his words as clear as if they’d been written in ink on a page.

Harry surged forward for a kiss, stealing the remaining air out of Tom’s lungs as he pressed their mouths together, and Tom’s arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s body as they swayed in place.

Tom inhaled the soft, clean scent of Harry’s jumper, learned the smooth feel of Harry’s unruly hair. The gentle touch of Harry’s hands and lips that left a sweet ache wherever they went.

It felt like something out of a fairytale ending, Tom decided. It felt like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE CHOSEN ONE  
> Harry J. Potter.
> 
> For my parents,  
> Lily and James,  
> who taught me that  
> true love outlasts all.
> 
> &
> 
> For Tom Marvolo Riddle,  
> the love of my life,  
> who needs to come up with  
> less ridiculous nicknames for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i had a great time writing this, and i think i will likely write something like this again in the future. any and all kudos, bookmarks, and comments are appreciated!  
> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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